


only shades of grey

by blackkat



Series: Mace Windu prompts [8]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Discussions of slavery, Friendship, Grey Jedi Mace Windu, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22250665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Lightning Squadron’s been in some pretty tight places since the war started, but Ponds has to admit that slavers are a new one.
Relationships: CC-6454 | Ponds/Mace Windu
Series: Mace Windu prompts [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941517
Comments: 29
Kudos: 828
Collections: Jedi Journals, Star Wars Alternate Universes





	only shades of grey

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: AU where Mace took a good look at his anger issues and decided that - while he loved being a Jedi - he would be more fulfilled if he left and joined some worthwhile cause that the Jedi couldn't b/c politics, e.g. the massive anti-slavery movements that maybe need someone w/ fighting abilities to help out a little; a place to channel that anger into fighting for justice, and thus control it. A few years later - enter some 91st, who were captured injured on the battlefield and sold as slaves.

Getting stationed with the 212th is usually one of the livelier postings, and while that makes some brothers like Wolffe get short-tempered and impatient, Ponds has never minded it. Cody’s a solid commander, and General Kenobi's a good man, if a little reckless. Besides, where the 212th goes, the 501st usually follows, and _that’s_ always a fun time.

Given the usually cheerfully controlled chaos of the 212th in motion, however, today it seems…quiet. In the hangar, Ponds pauses, the back of his neck prickling faintly at the unusual hush, and immediately looks for Cody. He’s waiting for them, armor polished and blaster at his hip, but—there’s a tightness around his eyes that Ponds doesn’t usually see when Kenobi's not in immediate peril.

“Vod? What’s happening?” he asks, as soon as he’s close enough. Cody hesitates, mouth pulling down, and then sighs.

“It’s nothing, Ponds,” he says quietly. When Ponds gives him the look that statement deserves, he grimaces, then says, “General’s having a day, and it’s carrying over.”

A day. In that tone, it can't mean anything but a bad day, and Ponds frowns. “I was ordered to report to him when Lightning Squadron made it in,” he says, a little concerned. “Should I hold off?”

Cody shakes his head. “Follow your orders, it’ll be fine. He’s just a little quiet today.”

It’s got to be more than that, if the whole of the 212th is walking on eggshells. Ponds arches a brow at Cody, who pulls a face in response but just waves him off.

“Go report in,” he says. “The general’s in his office. I’ll get your squadron settled on B Deck.”

Frowning a little, Ponds nods and steps back, waving his men forward. Trapper is seeing to the gear, and Hawkeye to the AT-RTs, so he leaves them to it, heading up towards the command deck. Kenobi's office is a few halls away, close enough that he’s easily reachable in an emergency, and usually the door is open to admit any trooper with a problem. Kenobi's friendly, always open to talk, and he has a soft spot for all the men under his command. That’s one constant Ponds is used to.

Today, however, the door is shut tight, the privacy light on, and Ponds studies it warily for a moment raises a fist and knocks lightly. General Allie told him to report directly to Kenobi, but—she probably didn’t expect this.

There's a long moment of silence, so long that Ponds almost thinks the office is deserted, but then a soft shuffle of papers sounds. “Come in,” Kenobi says, and far from his usual easygoing warmth, there’s something exhausted in his voice. Ponds hesitates, but he’s come this far, so he keys the door open and steps in.

“Sorry to bother you, General Kenobi,” he says formally. “General Allie said she informed you of Lightning Squadron’s pending arrival.”

Kenobi sinks back in his chair, letting out a breath, and scrubs his hands over his face. “Yes, of course, Commander Ponds,” he says, muffled. “I’m glad you made it. No trouble on your way in?”

“A few pirates who thought we’d be easy pickings, but that’s all,” Ponds answers, and can't help but glance at the general’s desk, where a bottle of Corellian brandy sits open. There's a glass next to it, empty, but it’s clearly been used. Kenobi isn't normally one to drink, especially during the day, and Ponds feels a flicker of concern rise into outright worry.

“Sir?” he asks. “Is everything all right?”

There's a pause, careful, and then Kenobi drops his hands. His expression is just as tired as his voice, and he smiles crookedly, waving Ponds towards the empty seat on the other side of the desk.

“I'm sorry, Commander,” he offers. “This is—wildly inappropriate and I apologize for my state. It’s nothing to—” He breaks off, grimacing, and then looks away. “It’s _very little_ to do with the war,” he corrects himself. “At least now. Today is just a…rather painful anniversary.”

“Sir?” Ponds asks in surprise, because he knows it’s almost the anniversary of the Battle of Geonosis, but he can't think of anything else it could be.

Kenobi's exhalation is long and slow, almost pained. Reaching out, he picks up the bottle and refills his glass, then tips the bottle at Ponds in offer. When Ponds shakes his head, Kenobi simply shrugs, picking up the glass and toasting him with it.

“Did you know,” he says with a forced sort of cheer, “that Master Yoda wasn’t always the Master of the Order? In fact, up until two years ago, he was retired from a position of authority beyond his regular council work. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Nine hundred years is quite a long time past the general age when one would be excused from duties.”

Ponds didn’t know that, but then, before two years ago every clone in existence was still on Kamino, undergoing training. He watches Kenobi sip his drink for a long moment, and then asks, “There was someone else, sir?”

Obi-Wan hums, swirling his drink absently, and his gaze slides over to the transparisteel of the window. “Yes,” he says, and it sounds like it hurts. “Master Mace Windu, one of the greatest Jedi I ever knew.” He takes a drink, then snorts softly. “And a right bastard, but given my old master’s proclivity for bucking the council’s orders, I hardly blame the man. He and Qui-Gon were friends, too. Most of the time.”

Ponds has heard stories about Qui-Gon Jinn, mostly secondhand from General Skywalker. Never the part about him being personal friends with the former Master of the Order, but in hindsight that makes everything seem much more logical. Particularly the part where some of Jinn’s more impressive stunts didn’t get him ejected from the Jedi Order.

“How did he die, sir?” Ponds asks quietly. “Master Windu. Was it on Geonosis?”

Obi-Wan blinks, like Ponds just startled him, and glances back. “Die?” he echoes, and grimaces. “Not at all, Commander. Mace Windu is likely still alive and well, far beyond the reaches of the Order.” A pause, heavy, considering, and then Obi-Wan sighs. “No, he didn’t die. He left the Order in protest, right before Geonosis.”

Ponds knows, objectively, that some Jedi retire from the Order, or leave it when their paths diverge. It’s not a prison, and the Jedi aren’t inmates or conscripts, but—the idea of it is like a clone leaving the army. He can't quite wrap his head around it. Especially for someone in a position of such authority.

“Do you know why, sir?” he asks quietly, and Obi-Wan laughs without much humor.

“Of course,” he says, as though it’s impossible not to know. “Mace was an opinionated bastard, for all his wisdom. When he had reached a decision, everyone knew about it.” He sighs, smiling wryly, and says, “It’s because of you and your brothers, Ponds. Because of the clones. Mace accompanied Master Yoda to Kamino right before Geonosis, to visit the cloning facilities, and when he heard that the Republic was going to order you into battle, he refused to allow such a thing. After all, a Jedi was the one to commission the clone army, and Mace felt the Jedi should be able to set you all free.”

It’s hard to think of something to say to that. Ponds hesitates, trying to some up with a response, but there isn't one. Obi-Wan doesn’t sound as though he’s assigning blame, just relaying causes, but—

The clones were created to fight. To serve as an army. Combat training and tactical lessons, and then outright war, are all Ponds has ever known. All he can imagine knowing. To hear that a Jedi wanted to step in and refuse to have them fight, to set them all loose, is…bewildering.

Obi-Wan lets out a soft breath, watching him, and his expression shifts towards sympathy. “Mace had very strong ideas about innocents being victimized by war,” he says softly. “Correct ideas, I would venture, in light of a Jedi's duty. When the Chancellor overruled him in regard to the use of the clone armies, he left the Order.” He takes another sip of his brandy, and his smile slips into something crooked. “Master Yoda tells me it was quite dramatic. Lots of lashing wind and Mace declaring he would rather die than take part in slavery, and how the whole war was going to end in tragedy because that’s how war _is_.” With a grimace, he tosses the rest of the liquor back in one go, and says, “Mace always was unafraid to have the correct opinion, very loudly.”

Ponds swallows, off kilter and unbalanced by the words. “Correct?” he echoes, and Obi-Wan snorts.

“We’re Jedi, Commander, not generals,” he says, self-deprecating. “The Senate told us to lead the war effort, and we obeyed, but—I wonder sometimes if we all should have taken Mace's route. It’s hard to be peacekeepers when you're fighting a galactic war.”

“The Separatists would have overrun most of the Outer Rim by now if you hadn’t stepped in, sir,” Ponds says, because that at least he knows without hesitation. “And they don’t think anything of bombing cities into rubble. I’d rather have you leading us than that, without question.”

Obi-Wan just sighs. “A point,” he acknowledges, resigned. “A protest would have created greater loss of life, and the Jedi are meant to defend innocents. We had to choose, and—I'm afraid the clones were the losers in that particular coin toss.”

The self-loathing in his voice prickles at Ponds’s skin, sits wrong along his spine. “Sir,” he says, “We were made for war. This is what we’re supposed to be doing.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees, sounding anything but happy about it. “Because it’s all you’ve been allowed to do.” Another sigh, and he puts his glass down, rubs his hands over his face again. “Master Aayla Secura and the _Liberty_ will be joining us for our next campaign. I was hoping to have the ARF scout before we land and give us updated locations for the Separatist forces—I'm afraid our spies on the planet have been captured, since we’ve heard nothing from them. Then Aayla and I will lead the ground assault while Depa Billaba and her starfighter squadron hold off the bombers.”

“Yes, sir,” Ponds says, relieved to be in more stable, familiar territory. He can take orders; thinking about what-ifs is the uncomfortable part. “Lightning Squadron’s ready, sir.”

Obi-Wan smiles, wan. “Thank you, Commander. Let me know if you and your men require anything during your stay aboard.”

“Yes, sir.” Ponds rises and gives him a salute, then retreats from the office, letting the door seal behind him again. Stops there, for a moment, to stare at it, and—

A Jedi who objected to the clones fighting so deeply that he gave up his position, his Order, his life as a Jedi, and left. Someone who felt so strongly about the clones being free sentients that he fought the Senate and the chancellor himself to make them that way. That’s…unsettling, almost. Ponds isn't sure whether he likes the story or if it just sits wrong.

By benefit of being a commander, even a visiting one, Ponds gets his own bunk. It’s pretty much a spare closet with a bed and a holonet terminal, but it’s enough. Ponds closes the door and lets out a breath, then strips off his armor. He has vague plans to let the men get settled in and then check on them, but there are still days of travel until they reach the next fight, and he’s been looking forward to the brief downtime. The 91st has been in constant combat for the last few months, and they're all feeling the strain. This next campaign isn't likely to go any easier than the last few; Republic forces are stretched thin all across the galaxy, and none of them have had time to breathe, let alone regroup in any meaningful way. 

But—

Ponds considers his bunk and the idea of a few hours of sleep, and then the holonet terminal. Kenobi's words itch at the back of his brain, too unsettling to be ignored, and after a moment he sits down at the terminal.

A search of Mace Windu brings up a few holos, a handful of essays by academics on the Jedi Order, a few diatribes by anti-war activists and anti-slavery groups endorsing the former Jedi master’s views. There’s not much else, which probably shouldn’t be a surprise; the generals fighting the war have some fan pages, plenty of news articles about them, but not much of anything from before the war broke out. Jedi have never sought publicity, especially in their regular peacekeeping work.

Leaning back in his chair, Ponds considers the clearest holo. Mace Windu is a tall man, Human, with a shaved head. The image is of him with Senator Amidala, back when she was Queen Amidala, and General Yoda, and he looks…stern, Ponds thinks. Almost grim, even in the peaceful setting of Naboo.

Then again, Naboo is where Qui-Gon Jinn died, and this was clearly taken in the aftermath of the battle. If Windu was his friend, it’s logical that he’d be grim after the death of someone close.

There's very little information otherwise, and after a few long moments Ponds shuts the terminal down and turns to the bed, getting ready for sleep. It doesn’t matter; Mace Windu isn't a part of the Jedi Order, and he certainly isn't part of the war effort. Just a story, and if it’s a story that will stick with Ponds for a while, well.

That’s fine. It’s probably worth considering, even if Ponds doesn’t have the time and space to dwell on it right now.

Lightning Squadron’s been in some pretty tight places since the war started, but Ponds has to admit that slavers are a new one.

“Sithspit,” Stak hisses in the cell across from him, all but vibrating with tension. He looks like he’s about to take another swing at the forcefield keeping him in, but Trapper already proved what a bad idea that was; he’s out cold and bleeding, and Ponds itches to reach for him but _can't_. even beyond the forcefields, the collars they're all sporting will detonate if they get more than a step outside their cells, and Ponds kind of wants to keep his head attached to his shoulders.

“Easy, trooper,” he says, even though he doesn’t feel anywhere close to settled himself. Seppies got them a few kilometers from the front, bombed them to hell and back, and left them, and then the slavers moved in to pick up the survivors.

Ponds has a pretty good idea what happened to General Kenobi's spies by now.

“Sorry, sir,” Stak says, all bared teeth. “I don’t like tight spaces. I particularly don’t like _slave cells_.”

Ponds breathes out. Agrees, obviously, but he just settles back against the rear wall of his cell, trying not to wince as his broken leg jars. “Not just you, Stak. Believe me.”

Stak grimaces, but before he can say anything else, Hawkeye snorts, and calls, “Sit the hell down already, Stak. We’re all in the same boat.”

“Shut up, vod,” Stak huffs, but he does sit down, casting a look across at Ponds. “Okay, Commander?”

“Yeah,” Ponds says, faintly dry. “Happy as a krayt dragon in a sandpit, thanks for asking.”

Razor, on Ponds’s other side, snorts quietly. “I heard General Skywalker telling Commander Tano that some Jedi have krayt dragon pearls in their lightsabers,” he says. “Could use some of those right now.”

“Anything General Skywalker tells his padawan should probably be taken with as much salt as on the whole surface of Crait,” Hawkeye says. “He also told her that one of Tatooine’s nine moons was made of cheese.”

Ponds blinks, and maybe it’s the pain from his leg, but— “Tatooine only has three moons.”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye drawls. “Exactly.”

It gets a chuckle from Razor, and then a breath. “Think General Kenobi’s going to notice we’re gone?” he asks. “Or General Secura. Hell, I’d take General Vos at this point.”

Ponds grimaces, because he’s not quite that desperate yet. Vos doesn’t see clones as sentients, and it _irks_ , all the more so because Ponds will never be able to do anything about it. “Half the squad escaped the bombing,” he says. “They’ll make it back to the Republic lines, but…”

There's no saying how long it will take for the Republic forces to break Separatist lines, even with two Jedi on their side. Until the 212th and the 327th manage that, they don’t have any men to spare for a rescue mission, even if they _can_ manage to track Ponds and his men wherever the slavers are taking them. Somewhere far from the planet they were on, as far as Ponds can tell; they were in hyperspace for a while, and whatever planet they're currently orbiting, it’s likely far away from the battle. 

It settles, heavy, in Ponds’s chest, knowledge that he doesn’t want. One squad of clones, even a squad with their specialization, can be replaced without hampering the war effort. More Advanced Recon troops can have their training finished and be sent out within a few weeks, and a new commander can be promoted easily. Clone troopers are easily replaceable; that’s the _point_ of them.

Ponds has just never quite had to face that knowledge so abruptly, or from such a position that’s he’s going to be one of those replaced.

“Sithing _hells_ ,” Hawkeye mutters, and rubs a hand over the unburned side of his face. “Two years of service to the GAR and this is how we end up? _Slaves_?”

“Someone will notice,” Stak says, stubborn. “Ponds is a commander. No way they’re going to risk him falling into enemy hands.”

Ponds grimaces, but tries not to let him see. The 91st doesn’t have a Jedi general of their own; they're recon troops, shunted between different generals as the war demands, and it means Ponds has some knowledge of current deployments and plans, but less than the Seps could probably pick up with a talented slicer and some mild luck.

“Yeah,” he says, because he’s not about to crack the one bit of hope the men have of being rescued. “Besides, Cody knows leaving me with you lot is worse torture than anything the Seppies could come up with.”

“Hey,” Hawkeye says, mildly miffed. “We’re the ones who hauled your ungrateful ass out of your AT-RT before it caught on fire, aren’t we?”

“Who hauled you out of yours all the other times?” Ponds retorts.

“Can't remember. All those head injuries, you know?” Razor answers instantly, and Ponds rolls his eyes as Hawkeye and Stak snicker. He opens his mouth to threaten them with shiny duty for the next month after they get out of this ( _if_ they get out of this) and—

A hard _thump_ shudders through the whole ship, hard enough to make Hawkeye stagger. Ponds’s breath catches, and he grabs for the closest wall of his cell, every muscle suddenly wound tight.

That wasn’t a landing. That was a _docking_.

“Shit,” Razor says. “Customers?”

Ponds trades grim looks with Stak. “Or pirates,” Stak says. In the Outer Rim, there’s probably equal odds of it being either.

Pirates might at least try to ransom them back to the Republic, Ponds thinks grimly. Customers probably want them _because_ they're clones. It’s a bad day when he’s hoping for pirates, but—Hondo Ohnaka wouldn’t be an entirely unwelcome face right now.

And then, faint through the door, Ponds catches the sound of blaster fire.

“Pirates,” Stak says, clearly catching it too. He straightens, stepping close to the edge of his cell again with his eyes fixed on the main door, and then casts a glance at Ponds. “Sir…”

“Stand down,” Ponds says quietly, because there’s no way out of their cells without the collars going off, and no way out of the room even if they _could_ get out. These slavers are obviously experienced, professional; they didn’t even hesitate to grab combat-trained troopers, and Ponds doesn’t want to know how they deal with escape attempts. Brutally, probably. If he and the others are going to stage an overthrow, there needs to be more of a chance of success than this.

Stak grimaces, but eases back, and growls, “Lucky Trapper, getting to take a nap through all of this.”

“Punch your cell and you can take a nap, too,” Razor tells him. There's a pause, and then he says, “That’s…not a lot of blaster fire if it’s pirates.”

Frowning, Ponds leans forward, trying to catch what he’s hearing. It takes a second, but—

Ponds has seen twelve slavers since they were captured, and it stands to reason that the crew can't be more than twenty strong on a ship this size. An invading crew would probably have to match that number if they wanted a chance, or beat it, and—there's not nearly enough shooting going on out there for that many people. He tries to count shots, but the echoes make it impossible, scatter strangely.

It almost sounds like there’s only one side doing the shooting, but that makes no sense at all.

Carefully, arduously, Ponds grabs the wall and hauls himself up, balancing on his good leg. He’s not about to face whatever this is on his ass, and he lifts his chin, watching the door with narrowed eyes. There's—

Silence. A deathly, ringing hush, washing through the ship, and then the sound of steps.

“Kriff,” Hawkeye says, eyes trained on the door. “What’s out there?”

And then, as if in answer, the whole karking door _shatters_ like it’s made of glass.

Stak and Hawkeye wrench back, but the forcefields keeping them in rebound the shards of metal. Ponds doesn’t move, body tense, gaze fixed the newly created opening. Standing there, backlit by the hallway lights, is a figure in a long grey cloak, hood pulled up and face in shadow. They stand there for a long moment, surveying the interior of the hold, and then step inside.

“Explosive collars?” the stranger asks, short, brusque, and halts in front of the control panel on the far wall. Studies it for a long moment, then hits two buttons, and the forcefields flicker out.

“Wait!” Ponds snaps, before Stak can take a step. He looks at their rescuer carefully, then inclines his head. “The captain has the release codes,” he says.

There's a snort, soft, and the stranger steps forward. “The captain _had_ ,” he corrects, and comes to a stop in front of Hawkeye’s cell. Offers a hand, gloved, and Hawkeye eyes him warily for a long second before he folds his arms over his chest.

“What the hell do you want?” he asks.

There’s a pause, pointed. “To get that collar off,” the stranger says. “I don’t need a code.”

Something like relief flickers over Hawkeye’s face, and he nods shortly. “All right,” he says, and turns. His stubby ponytail’s come out, the tie lost somewhere on a distant battlefield, but he tugs his hair out of the way even as Ponds makes a low sound of warning.

Before he can actively object, though, the stranger puts a hand on the slim band of the collar. There's a sharp crack, a spray of sparks, and the thing clicks open. With a sound of desperate relief, Hawkeye jerks it off his neck, tossing it down, and straightens.

“Thank you,” he tells the stranger.

Their rescuer nods once, a sharp incline of his head. “The ship’s been damaged,” he says, moving on to Stak. “We need to get to mine before we lose oxygen.”

“Karking slavers can't even aim well enough to keep their own ship intact,” Stak mutters, and as soon as the stranger has broken his collar, he ducks out of the cell, some of the lines in his face easing. He’s never done well with tight spaces, Ponds knows.

“They were getting desperate,” the stranger says, flat, but there’s nothing of sympathy in it. He turns to Ponds, but Ponds shakes his head and jerks a thumb at Razor.

“My men first,” he says. “Trapper’s alive, too, just knocked out.”

A pause, considering, and the man nods. He moves on to Razor, then Trapper in the cell across from him, and Razor and Stak immediately haul Trapper up between them once he’s free. It’s only then that the stranger turns to Ponds, and beneath the deep hood Ponds can only just make out the curl of a mouth, dark skin and a faint frown.

“Your leg?” he asks shortly.

Ponds nods. “Broken,” he says. “They grabbed us off a battlefield. Apparently getting to wherever we were headed was more important than fixing us up.”

The stranger scowls. “The Hutts,” he says. “That’s where you were going. Jabba’s palace on Tatooine.”

Ponds controls the dark curl of trepidation that slides down his spine. Swallows, instead, and breathes out, then offers, “Can't say I’ll object to missing that meeting.”

The man snorts, amused, and steps closer. Reaches out, and Ponds goes stiff as a gloved hand touches his collar. There's no device that he can see, no tech; just a touch, and an instant later the metal snaps right by the hinge. Ponds pulls it off, dropping it with a grimace, and debates stepping on it. Would, but—well. Kicking an explosive collar’s probably not a good idea.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, and means it. “Who are you?”

“A friend,” the man says, stepping back. “Just not to slavers.” A pause, and he turns away, cloak flaring. “Help your officer,” he tells Hawkeye. “My ship’s this way.”

Hawkeye does as he’s told, slipping bac to haul Ponds’s arm over his shoulders. “Got it, Commander?” he asks, as Ponds takes a careful step.

“ _Sithspawn_ ,” Ponds says through gritted teeth, which should be answer enough. Hawkeye’s expression twists in sympathy.

“Least we’re out of this hellhole, vod,” he murmurs, and Ponds grimaces.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Hawkeye,” he mutters, and Hawkeye’s mouth tightens. He nods, and Ponds turns his eyes forward, trusting that his message was received. They don’t know anything about their rescuer, and trusting him just because he got them out is a bad idea. They have no idea what his motivations are, and there are too many people with dark goals to trust anyone blindly.

The hall from the cells up towards the top of the ship is clear, but in the next one the bodies start piling up. Razor makes a low, angry sound as they pass one of the men who’d dragged them aboard and collared them, but he doesn’t pause, just navigates the path with Stak and keeps following their rescuer. Ponds does, just for a moment, and—

“Those look like blaster bolts to you?” he asks quietly.

Hawkeye looks, and immediately his eyes widen. He jerks his head up to look at Ponds, and says, “Sir, those are—”

Lightsaber wounds. Ponds has never seen anything else that cuts and cauterizes like that. It explains the echoing blaster-fire, too—rebounds from a lightsaber ricocheting, rather than return fire. He takes a breath and nods, eyes going to the sweep of the stranger’s cloak as he rounds the corner.

“That’s what I thought, too,” he says grimly.

Hawkeye hesitates. “Some kind of Sith, sir?” he asks. “If Dooku picked up a new apprentice…”

“He does seem to run through them like tissues,” Ponds says dryly, but he keeps moving. A Jedi would know that clones would trust and obey them immediately if they revealed themselves, and with none of the slavers left alive, there was no reason _not_ to tell them who he was. If their rescuer is a Sith, though, they’re probably karked anyway. Getting a little more information on him before he kills them is the best they can do, and maybe Razor can slice a comm array, get word of the threat to Kenobi or Skywalker—

“Here,” the stranger says, and Hawkeye comes to a sharp halt. Ponds grimaces, looking up at the neat hole cut through the hull of the slaver ship. No wonder they're losing oxygen. That seal’s not meant for long-term use.

“What’d you do, knock on the side of the ship with a thermal detonator?” Razor demands incredulously.

“At least I knocked,” their rescuer says dryly, and leaps up through the hole in a spring that’s _definitely_ not something a normal Human can manage. Ponds hears Stak’s quick inhale, sees Razor’s eyes widen, and feels a flicker of grim satisfaction. Probably not a Jedi, but—definitely a Force user of some kind.

“Come on,” he says, hobbling forward with Hawkeye’s help, and ignoring Stak’s hissed, “ _Jetii_?”

“Brace yourself,” the man warns, and a moment later Ponds jerks, feeling the strange, impossible weightlessness that lifts him upward. It’s less an invisible rope and more as if gravity has entirely stopped working beneath his feet, and as soon as he’s been floated up into the other ship he grabs for the first solid thing within reach, which just so happens to be their rescuer.

That’s unnerving as _hell_. General Allie’s certainly never done that to him before.

“Easy,” the man says, but he doesn’t shake Ponds off, just wraps an arm around his waist to help hold him up. From this close, in the light of the other ship, Ponds can make out grey robes belted with deep blue beneath the grey cloak. It’s not a color he’s ever seen a Jedi wear, but—

Sith tend to go for black and red, not grey.

Taking a breath, Ponds reminds himself that not all of their enemies are going to be helpful enough to color-code themselves. Skywalker wears a lot of black and red, too, and he’s one of the good guys.

“Ready?” the man asks, and there’s an affirmative from below. A moment later, Trapper’s limp body floats through the hole, and the man lifts the hand that’s helping hold Ponds up and takes a breath. Turns, lips thinning, and raises his other hand, and there’s a sound of surprise. Hawkeye’s head appears through the hole, followed by the rest of him, and he lands and stumbles. Hesitates there, looking between Ponds and Trapper, like he can't decide who needs his help more.

“Get Trapper,” the stranger says. “The landings will be far less rough if I'm not dividing my attention.”

Hawkeye ducks over the grab Trapper, and as soon as his hold is firm the man lets go of his hold on him, letting him slump against Hawkeye. Hawkeye grunts, but holds firm, and within a few moments Stak and Razor are being pulled up as well. Behind them, the hatch drops, then seals itself with a beep, and the man drops his hand with a breath. Ponds can feel the strain in the body against his go faintly lax, and after a second the man turns, supporting Ponds with an ease that says he’s done this kind of thing before. He helps Ponds limp through the belly of the small ship, up onto the main deck. Some kind of Corellian light freighter, by the layout, Ponds thinks, not that it’s a good identifier; there are enough of them to be a nuisance, and practically every smuggler Ponds has ever met has sworn by them.

“Bunks are that door,” the man says, and the indicated door hisses open like an invisible hand hit the button. “There’s a medpac along the far wall.”

Razor hurries to grab it, and Ponds forces himself to relax. The stranger wouldn’t be letting them roam around his ship if he was intending to space them immediately, and fixing them up is probably a good sign. Carefully, painfully, he lets the man ease him down onto one of the three bunks, then grits his teeth around a cry as his broken leg is lifted and laid straight.

“Shit,” he breathes, and closes his eyes.

“There’s a bone-knitter, Commander,” Razor says, and Ponds nods his thanks, but waves a hand at Trapper as he’s hauled up on the other bunk.

“Check him first,” he says. “Probably has a concussion, even with his thick skull.”

The stranger snorts, straightening. A gesture of a hand has a bacta patch floating out of the medpac and right to Hawkeye. “See to your face, too,” the man tells him, and heads for the cockpit with a flare of his cloak.

Hawkeye takes one look at the bone-knitter being pulled from its case and blanches faintly. He pulls the backing from the patch and slaps it over the burned side of his face, then ducks out of the room after the man. “Want some help with those hyperspace calculations?” he asks.

Ponds rolls his eyes, and Stak snorts. “Brave as any bastard right up until the medpac comes out,” he says dryly, and settles by the head of Ponds’s bunk. The wariness in his expression is well-hidden, but still something Ponds can pick out easily enough. “ _Jetti_?”

Ponds grunts. “ _Would have told us,_ ” he says in Mando’a. “ _Maybe one of Dooku’s_.”

Razor hums, low and thoughtful. “ _One of Dooku’s would have shot us in our cells_ ,” he points out.

“ _I wouldn’t trust one of Dooku’s not to play a long game and make us think that_ ,” Stak says disgustedly, and Ponds sighs.

“ _Unfortunately_ ,” he mutters, and eyes Razor as the sergeant approaches with the bone-knitter.

“Sorry, vod,” Razor says, lifting the device. “Want some painkillers?”

“Drug me and I’ll have you scrubbing decks with the shinies,” Ponds threatens, and sets his jaw. “Do it.”

The hum of a ship in hyperspace is a comfort after two years in the army, and Ponds comes awake slowly, easily, without any of the tightly contained terror that’s been his companion since he woke up to a slaver binding his hands. For a long moment, he lays in the bunk, staring up at the dark ceiling, and then carefully sits up. The ship is dark, and in the glow of the bleeding starlight he can see Stak and Razor crammed into the second bunk, Trapper in the third. Hawkeye is sprawled out on the floor, and he’s kicked his blanket off almost completely, mashed his pillow into a strange shape. Ponds snorts quietly, then slides off and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Uh?” Hawkeye manages, prying one eye open.

“Take the bed, vod,” Ponds says, amused, and Hawkeye is too groggy to argue. With a grunt, he hauls himself up, collapses onto the mattress, and promptly passes out again. Shaking his head, Ponds tosses the blanket over him, then rises to his feet and eyes the open cabin door.

In the darkness, he can see their rescuer in the pilot’s seat, a shadow against the brightness. He fed them, put them to bed, and—

They're all alive. They're all fine. A touch of suspicion still itches underneath Ponds’s skin, but in light of his men being patched up, fed, and rescued from slavers by a mysterious Force-user, he decides he can give have at least a little faith that they're not all about to be spaced or tortured.

Ponds’s leg is healed, but it still feels unpleasantly tender when he puts weight on it. It puts a hitch in his step as he crosses the deck, and he’s not subtle. Their rescuer must hear him coming, but he doesn’t turn, even when Ponds carefully eases himself down into the copilot’s chair.

“Sorry to take your bed,” he tells the man, glances over—

And freezes solid at the sight of a familiar face watching him, one brow cocked, a touch of amusement pulling at his lips.

Mace Windu still looks like he did in the holo on Naboo, all but unchanged by the years since. There are a few more lines in his face, and a scar that slants across one cheek, but it still takes no effort at all for Ponds to recognize the former master of the Jedi Order.

“You haven’t,” Mace says, just faintly dry. “I was sending some communications.” A pause as he looks Ponds over carefully, and then he says, “You recognize me.”

Ponds swallows. Wonders what to say to a former Jedi—potentially a general, but one who left before the war even started. “I—General Kenobi mentioned you, Master Windu,” he manages after a moment. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you sooner, sir—”

Mace looks away, mouth tightening. “I,” he says flatly, “am not part of the Jedi Order, I'm not a master, and I'm certainly not a general, Commander. Save that for someone who is.”

Caught off guard, Ponds closes his mouth around the rest of his apology. “But you were,” he says.

Mace makes a sound of disinterested agreement, but Ponds can see the way he tenses just a little. “I was,” he agrees, sardonic. “But there were certain irreconcilable differences that drove us apart, I'm afraid.”

A flicker of amusement bubbles up despite Ponds’s best efforts. “And the Order kept everything in the divorce?” he asks.

“And good riddance to all of it,” Mace allows, just the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

“I thought you might be a Sith,” Ponds says, in the interests of full disclosure. “Do you normally go around breaking slaver ships in the middle of nowhere in the Outer Rim?”

The silence that follows the question is startlingly heavy, and Ponds realizes belatedly that he’s put his foot in something potentially explosive. Mace keeps his eyes trained forward, but he says nothing, and after several too-long moments Ponds shifts, opens his mouth to change the subject—

“Yes,” Mace says quietly, but it _vibrates_ with an anger that’s almost tangible, hot and sharp against Ponds’s sense. “I was party to slavery, and I didn’t do anything to stop it. So now I hunt down whatever slavers I can, in the hope of making up for even a fraction of what I allowed to happen.” He turns his head, and the weight of his attention settling on Ponds is something jarring, too great. But—

There’s grief there, too. Angry, tangled grief, worn around the edges but no less biting for that, settled like a familiar weight in Mace's expression.

 _Mace had very strong ideas about innocents being victimized by war_ , General Kenobi had said, and—it makes Ponds look away, uncomfortable with the reminder earlier of just how interchangeable and easily replaced he and his brothers are. Slavery, Mace says, and—

It’s not. Not really. But Ponds doesn’t have any idea what to call it if it isn't, either.

“We were made for the Republic,” he says, and Mace looks away again.

“You were,” he agrees, and the curl of his mouth is bitter. “By a _Jedi_. But you're sentient, and you should have been set free as soon as the Council realized what was happening. That you weren’t—it’s a stain on the Jedi and the Republic both, and it’s never going to come out.”

Ponds digs his fingers into the chair beneath him, not sure how to answer that. Not sure he _wants_ to. They're sentients, created in a lab, but—there are plenty of children across the galaxy that are created under similar circumstances. They have a genetic template, but—identical twins have the same rights as anyone else. The clones are raised for war, trained for it, but—

But, but, but. Ponds has had too long to think about all of this, being held by the slavers. Knowing what he was bound for, and unable to do anything but hope someone would come for them.

“Where are we going,” he asks, rough in his throat, instead of answering. He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t have an argument, either.

Thankfully, Mace doesn’t press him. “Dagobah,” he says. “We should be there soon.”

Ponds frowns, not able to call up any reference to the planet that he’s heard before, which likely means it’s not inhabited. “We need to get back to the front,” he says. “Or at least somewhere a Republic transport can pick us up. It’s already been too long—”

Mace doesn’t move. “We picked up a tail near Nar Shaddaa,” he says. “A bounty hunter. Dagobah is the best place to hide.”

“ _Sir_ ,” Ponds starts hotly.

The ship rattles like it was just struck by a blow. “I'm not a general,” Mace snaps, and rises to his feet. That same barely-contained anger thrums around him, enough to steal Ponds’s voice. “Don’t treat me like one.”

The smart thing to do would be to let him walk away. Ponds curses at himself, but he struggles to his feet and takes a step after Mace, catching his sleeve before he can disappear into the belly of the ship. “Wait! It’s not—I'm grateful you saved us, but we’re soldiers. The Republic needs us. We have to go back.”

Mace looks at him, and Ponds can't even begin to read his expression. “It needs you too much, Commander,” he says harshly, but doesn’t pull away. “It needs you so much it never paused to ask before it took.”

“Maybe,” Ponds says quietly. “But we’re doing what needs to be done. And after the war, the Senators can work it out. I just want to get back to my men.”

Mace doesn’t answer for a long, long moment. “I’ll take you back,” he finally allows. “But not with a bounty hunter on my tail.” A spark of amusement turns his face from something grim into something wry and practically friendly. “Your genetic template doesn’t give up easily.”

Ponds chokes. “ _Jango_?” he demands, a little too loud. “ _Jango_ is after you?”

“He has a contract with the Hutts,” Mace confirms, and raises a brow at Ponds, like there isn't the curve of a smile pulling at his mouth. “I think at this point he takes my escapes as a personal challenge.”

“Probably,” Ponds manages, a bit dazed. Jango Fett is after Mace. It sounds like he’s _been_ after him for a while. “He _kills_ Jedi.”

“Temple Jedi,” Mace says, still amused, even if there’s a sharper edge to it now. “Jedi who follow the light and the teachings of the Order. Not Jedi like me.”

Ponds realizes, abruptly, that Mace has said several times that he’s no longer part of the Order, but—not that he isn't a Jedi. Startled, he looks at Mace, looks at the grey robes in a Jedi style, the handle of a lightsaber in electrum and gold clipped to his belt. Remembers the easy use of the Force in the slavers’ ship, delicate and deft as he lifted them.

“I—are there other kinds of Jedi?” he asks, bewildered.

Mace's expression softens faintly. “Yes,” he says. “Light Jedi, like those in the Order. Dark Jedi, who use the Dark Side but haven’t been trained as Sith. And Grey Jedi, who walk the line between the two but never let themselves be swayed to the Dark.”

“Grey,” Ponds echoes. “But—if you're using the Dark…”

Mace shakes his head. “I can,” he says without hesitation. “I don’t. But I can't align myself with the Order any longer, given their actions.”

“And you're not fighting in the war, either,” Ponds says quietly. “You're sticking to the Outer Rim, harassing slavers, when the whole galaxy’s going up in flames. You were the master of the Jedi once. You won't fight for the people you used to protect?”

“I am,” Mace says harshly. “The war isn't just battlefields, Commander. People out here still need protection.”

“Could you beat Count Dooku?” Ponds asks, unwavering. “If you were strong enough to be the master of the whole Order, could you beat him?”

“Dooku isn't the lynchpin of this war,” Mace says flatly. “Not anymore. Killing him wouldn’t stop it.”

Ponds stops short, startled by the words. For so long, they’ve been focused on capturing Count Dooku, bringing him to justice. But if he’s not the cause, then what is?

“Still,” he says, and holds Mace's gaze. Can't think of anything but getting back to the war, another Jedi with them, and the difference that could make. They could save _planets_ with another Jedi on their side. “We need every hand. We’re fighting, but we’re outnumbered. And maybe we’re slaves to the Republic, but right now we’re necessary. I don’t want more people to die, and if sacrificing my life can save them—”

Mace's expression twists, and he looks away. “Your life,” he says, “is worth just as much as anyone else’s.”

“Yeah,” Ponds says, maybe a little wryly. “But I'm a soldier. I’d rather it was me getting shot at by a clanker than some kid.” He pauses, watching Mace's face, and realizes that he still has a hold of his sleeve. Lets go, shifting back, and takes a breath. “You're protesting the war,” he says. “I understand that, s— _Mace_. But stopping it saves a hell of a lot more of us.”

“I managed to save you, didn’t I?” Mace asks dryly, but he lets out a breath and turns. In the darkness, the grey of his robes makes him nothing but a piece of shadow, even with the stars streaming all around them. “You have the helm, Commander. I'm checking the engines.”

“It’s Ponds,” he says, an impulse he can't name. “I'm Ponds.”

The pause as Mace accepts that is deliberate, defined. “Mace,” he returns, and that flicker-quick smile rises again, a little tired but still clear. “But you already knew that.”

“General Kenobi called you a bastard,” Ponds says, and he’s smiling a little, too. “Twice, I think.”

“Did he.” Mace's brow is definitely raised.

“I think he was a little drunk at the time.” Ponds considers the Jedi for a long heartbeat, and then asks, “Dagobah?”

Mace doesn’t answer for a moment, and then he lets out a low breath. “Dantooine,” he finally says. “That’s where Obi-Wan and his battalion are right now. If that’s who you’re looking for.”

Relief is a magnesium flare in the darkness. “Thank you,” Ponds says quietly. “For that, and for the rescue.”

Mace slips deeper into the shadows, but—

There’s a little light that lingers around him, just enough for Ponds to see the curve of his face in the darkness, the grey of his robes. A Grey Jedi, maybe, but not Dark. Not even close.

“You're welcome, Ponds,” Mace says, and vanishes into the shadows.

Ponds has faith. He’ll come back.


End file.
